


The hanged man

by Whenhopediesyoung



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU where everything's sadder, Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, Jon's terrible decisions, M/M, Scars, Self-Sacrifice, Tarot card prompts, low-key character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 14:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18527155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whenhopediesyoung/pseuds/Whenhopediesyoung
Summary: Gerry is suspended, not on this damp slab of rock but beyond. Bloodied and ringed by unblinking eyes. Scarred and scared, pitted and pitiful. He'd wanted his mother in the end, but had refused to call out for her, to give her this moment. And Jon? Jon sees.





	The hanged man

   Gerry is suspended, not on this damp slab of rock but beyond. Bloodied and ringed by unblinking eyes. Scarred and scared, pitted and pitiful. He'd wanted his mother in the end, but had refused to call out for her, to give her this moment. And Jon? Jon _sees_.

   He sees the way the tremor starts, picking it's way up his spine deceptively. As if it wasn't birthed in his brain, as if he had time, had hope until it got there. He had wanted Jon with him too, in the end. But he hadn't been surprised by his absence. Jon _knows_ the pit in his stomach, the acceptance underneath the fear. The flash of familiar, _so_ familiar black humor at the knowledge that the Lonely was all that would help see him to his end.

   He sees, even as he sobs, bent double, burnt hand laid flat on the granite beside Gerry. Even as he forces his hands against his eyes, trying to drive the Knowing out. When he swallows the self-loathing, the foolish need to beg Gerry to let him hold his hand one last time. All the Knowing in the World, that he would, that he loves- loved him isn't enough to make him reach for that still, cold hand.

   He doesn't deserve it. Comfort or love or Gerry. He could have Known, if only he let the Beholding in. He would have been forgiven, eventually, even if he could never see Gerry again, he would be alive. Not burnt and bloody and scared, seared across his eyelids like a thousand horrors. It didn't matter that he lay on the stone whole. Underneath, even lower then the cancer had been all this. And. He. Hadn't. Bloody. Known.

   Jon drops his head down, fingers finding old scars unerringly. The wounds from the book, the second book to bare that dreaded name. Lietner. It had whispered to him, low and hypnotic until everything between the next mutter was washed out, irreverent. He had understood, on some level, what he had stumbled upon a second time. It felt the same as that last foul book he'd held in one hand. And yet... He _had_ to know.

   When the pull came toward Pinhole books he remembered another relentless tugging. A different cover, less battered, less diseased, but still the same underneath. He purposefully left the book behind, dropped it carelessly on the coffee table. And when his hand fell on the door (knock knock Mister Spider knock knock) he had nothing worth forcing him to stay.

   That could have been it. A foiled web, a battered book, a story finally reaching it's conclusion. But when he struggled back home, through streets he had not consciously taken, the door to his flat had been broken open. He Knew, deep in his chest, that the book had been taken by another. Someone who would be devoured by it... or worse. Much worse.

   He barely stopped to grab his phone, left his keys and wallet where they lay. The streets seemed to twist, to writhe and waylay him. The cold had sunk deep into his skin when his legs gave out. He tumbled, into the darkly dressed figure of a man. The glower is enough to make him reconsider, to give up the madness and make peace with the itch in the back of his mind.

   "The book's gone. Stolen. You can- you can draw them to you, like you did me. Keep them from- from getting hurt or hurting someone!" The words seem to leap out of his throat, as if compelled, drawn forth by an unseen hand (an eye). He has no reason to trust the man. He was pulled towards him, but if he can convince him to give him a clue, a place to start he can get there first, can end it.

   "It sounds like you lucked out. You should be glad it got rid of you." The stranger, is soaked by the drizzle, cheap eyeliner running. Jon feels, strangely breathless, looking at him. Strange entirely. "You're already looking. You're as lost as I am." He realizes with a start. All at once the ache in his legs catch up with him. He's dirty and hungry and exhausted. He wants to be home, has no clue how far away that is.

   "Feels like it's kind of hard to be as lost about all this as you are." The guy notes, almost cheerful. Jon stiffens, automatically tensing. He hates being talked down to. "Well then, enjoy your walk." The slight swaying of his step seem to alarm the other man who reaches out to steady him. He scours Jon's face, looking for signs of ailment. "It's been just as long a day for you, huh?" A long drawn out sigh. "Alright, fine."

   He puts a hand at Jon's elbow, warm and as unnecessarily big as the rest of him. Not stocky, but tall, strong looking. It occurs to Jon that he might be dangerous in a number of ways, none of which he's exactly equipt to deal with. "Where's your place- don't say it just think of it. In general terms, the details those are what throw you." Jon wants to object, to say he has a keen mind for details. Like the calluses on the palm that half holds him up clearly from manual labor, or the scar near his mouth from an old piercing. But exhaustion and hunger make it impossible to even picture the street.

   They make it there. The man curses at the open door, takes one look at Jon and orders him to sit. He sinks into the couch, tries to breath his lightheadedness away. The man lurks in his door way, examining the water damage and shattered door. It occurs to Jon, later, that he's moved the end table to relative safety, and gathered Jon's dingiest towels. Sometime between considering blinking and doing so he's found some tools, left behind from Goergie and works cursing on the door.

   By the time Jon gets the strength to rise, the door's being carefully restored to it's closed position. The hinges look new, possibly drawn from the other man's pockets. "You knew I had been broken into. You were looking for me." It's not a question. The man grimaces, he's young probably around Jon's age. Jon feels older. "The... think that got you here connected from ou- from my door to yours to you." Jon shudders horror touching his expression.

   "Look. Come here." The man drags his fingers through the air at the center of his door slowly. "It's all gone now see." Jon approaches jumpily, fear warring with a desperate need to know. To be sure. He darts his hand out, waves it in the designated area. Nothing. "Yeah sorry about that, web's nasty. Almost as bad as the Filth." He studies him critically. "Where's the wash?"

   Jon follows him in, earlier ease completely stripped away. But the man just drops the towels down, watches attentively when Jon picks them up, lays them out correctly. His joints pop as he moves, a hiss leaving him. "Have you had anything to drink all day? Eat?" He doesn't seem terribly shocked at Jon's head shake. "Kitchen next."

   Jon sinks against the counter as the other man moves, plucking barren contents out with time earned ease. Used to an empty cupboard then. "Make yourself something too." He's not quite sure what made him say it but it's gratifying to see the other man turn his way for an instant. "Sure." He doesn't sound sure, is looking at Jon as if he's the strange one. Maybe he is.

   The simple statement seems to have struck the other man. He's less assured now, shoulders drawn upward near his ears, body language stiff. Good job Sims, you managed to make him nervous. "It's Gerry, by the way." He blurts it out a little too loudly. The silence that follows is awkward, too reminiscent of a first date then, then whatever this is. Jon laughs first, a low sound little more then the hitching of breath, and then abruptly they both are.

   "God." He huffs out another laugh, shakes his head. "It's nice to meet you Gerry." He's grinning and so is Gerry, looking at eachother incredulously. Neither of them, clearly, should have been allowed to control a social interaction. "It's Jon, by the way, Jon Sims." He lets himself half-doze following they're exchange, only fully aware of it when a large hand grips his shoulder.

   "Food. Here drink something too. Slowly both." Listening is a struggle, but if Gerry considers their interactions for a moment he might decide to go alone. "Can you find it? Can you stop it?" He asks, once he feels marginally human again. Gerry looks up with only his eyes, intent on his meal. "Should be able to with both, given the chance." He considers this, eyes low.

   "Can you show me how to stop them? This is the second one and if- and last time-consuming I barely managed to survive and-" He runs out of steam gesturing uselessly. Gerry stares at him, dark badly dyed hair framing his face, and comes to a decision. I'll show you how. If-" he stresses jabbing a finger in Jon's face. "You contact me at least once a week, so I know you're alive." Jon's smile almost splits his face. "Absolutely."

   "We start tomorrow." He turns toward the door, dread plain on his face. "You can stay here." He's shocked now, and Jon's fumbling, trying to figure out how to make it clear that it's not that kind of offer. "I mean I only have a couch but-"

   "That's fine. I ah, appreciate it." Gerry interject hastily, looking worried Jon might retract his offer. "Great." His voice is too high, he rises fast enough that the dishes rattle. "Let me get you, I think I have a spare pillow, some clean sheets- blankets. I'll, I'll go get them." He practically flees the room.

   "You know, if it wasn't for earlier, I'd be worried you're about to turn me in for b and e." Gerry calls, voice warm and confident. "Now that I'm thinking straight I'm about to." Jon jabs back without thinking about it. His laugh is rough and deep. It's nice. Jon manages to scrounge up two blankets and a single deflated pillow.

   He had smiled at him that night, unaware of worms that burrowed under flesh, of burning cults and crushing earth. Unaware of the collection of scars and loyalty the two would end up acquiring. Of the cells screaming that would end up screaming the wrong commands in Gerry's head. Of how persistent the archive would be, once the taint of it crawled out of the book and latched onto him.

   Jon forces his shoulders straight, struggles to master his harsh breathing. He can see Gerry, bloodied and hurting every mark they've acquired together on grotesque display. Jon looks down at his hands, unmarked other then Perry's burn and a single eye, done hypnoticly just like the painting it was based off of. When his phone rings he doesn't look at the caller not with his eyes. 

   Instead he gazes down at a neatly dressed man in a neatly appointed office. Watches his mouth move as he speaks into the phone. He can almost feel the rest of the building, all stone and metal and statements, eager to jump into his head. To be able to drive itself into his skull, like the suited man is this very moment. And Jon, Jon straightens, nearly shoves the other man out of his skull, and _sees_.

   "Elias, it's nice to finally speak. I wanted to take you up on that job offer."


End file.
